


It Took Years

by justleaf



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beware Spoilers, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, I literally created this account to write Iorveth/Roche fanfic, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28790880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justleaf/pseuds/justleaf
Summary: [MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD FOR THE WITCHER 2 AND WITCHER 3 GAMES]Following the events of the Peace Summit in Loc Muinne, Vernon Roche and Iorveth find themselves locked in the chaos of the impending Nilfgaardian invasion. As the battle rages harder and their days grow bleaker, they slowly turn to each other.
Relationships: Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Comments: 19
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Witcher 3 didn't give us Iorveth, so this is a self-serving piece of work that explores the aftermath of the events in Witcher 2, from the perspective of boytoy extraordinaire Vernon Roche.
> 
> Chapters with sex stuff:  
> \- Chapter 3
> 
> Chapters with descriptions of violence:  
> \- Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're re-reading and find that it's just the tiniest bit unfamiliar, it's because yours truly decided to make some edits. As you might come to find out, I tend to go back and make a lot of changes when the flow doesn't sit right with me. 
> 
> EDIT LOG  
> 17 Jan: Changed up a wee bit of dialogue and added more to the last paragraph.

Vernon Roche had dug himself a shallow grave on the crown of a ravine, where he could watch the final moments of their hopeless battle unfold. Thrice he had slipped into unconsciousness, and thrice he had been awoken by the suffocating clouds of smoke and ash. He tried to suppress the wheezing and coughing as much as he could, for each hack jolted the arrowheads in his leg and the splintered bones of his ribs.

He wanted to scream, yell, and curse, but there was no one there to hear him. He had lost sight of John Natalis, Ves, and the rest of the Blue Stripes in the fury of the fray, and now laid alone amidst the piles of freshly slain corpses. The hoard of black ones were cutting down rows of Temerian Lilies, the outcome long decided even before he had taken the first arrow to his leg.

Unexpectedly, Roche began to tremble with the laughter of a madman.

Just a few weeks ago, he was hunting down Scoia'tael and plotting against King Henselt, so deeply immersed in his tasks that he had failed to detect the approach of the Nilfgaardians. The 2nd Temerian Army had held them off at the foot of Dol Blathanna for three sleepless days and nights, but he should have known that his efforts would once again be futile.

Alone on his deathbed, he was left to wonder: What did it all matter in the grand scheme of things?

Vernon Roche, the decorated commander of the Blue Stripes and loyal servant of the Temerian Crown, had spent so much time executing orders that he had forgotten to make time for himself. He had more swords than he had lovers, more enemies than he had friends, and more bodies than he had rescuees. It was far too late for regrets now, and Roche only realised how little of his life he had fulfilled seconds before he was about to lose it.

Ves. Folest. Iorveth. Geralt. He wished he had gotten to know them better.

Before his thoughts could cohese, he bade farewell to the world as darkness gripped him once more.  
  


_________________________  
  


_“Vernon Roche!”_

Cogniance drifted to him like a lily along the waves - brushing against the shores of consciousness for the briefest of moments, only to be swept back into the endless pools of strange dreams and difficult memories.

_“...with me, Vernon.”_

The moments of wakefulness were few and far-between, but he remembered them all: a voice shouting his name, the warmth of another body, a slightly more comfortable surface, and countless flashes of pain as blurred figures pressed and prodded his wounds. Most of all, he remembered the comforting scent that reminded him of freshly fallen rain and the musky earth. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, for the flashes of day were muddled by the long sunsets and confused him with the morning sunrise.

_“...fever is going down. He has a long road ahead, but he has gotten through the worst.”_

Roche clung onto the words desperately as he struggled to tug himself back into the waking world. When he was certain that his fingers were wriggling outside of his dreams, he seized control of his breathing and tried to force open his eyes.

It worked. Darkness greeted him as he cracked open heavy eyelids, and the pain coursing was so great that he immediately wished he had never woken up. An unwitting groan left his lips as he tried to struggle into a more comfortable position, but there were a few heavy footsteps and a pair of hands pushing his shoulders back.

“Stay still,” commanded a steely and familiar voice. Roche began to struggle against the hold.

“Let…go,” he whispered between tortured breaths, even though the shooting pain in his chest begged him to still.

“Bloede dh'oine, stop moving for fuck’s sakes! We just mended your bones and stitched your wounds!”

It took a long moment for him to come to his senses. When he finally collapsed back onto the mat, his breaths were coming in laboured pants and his skin was flushed with a sheen of sweat. He became acutely aware of the face hovering inches from his own, concerned, frustrated, and upset all at once.

“Iorveth?” he breathed incredulously. He blinked them a few times and scratched his finger against the inside of his palm to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

“Your wounds were infected and you’ve been in a coma for a week,” the same gravelly and nasal voice explained.

"Iorveth, how did you find me?"

"You fainted at the foot of Dol Blathanna, wearing blue in the sea of black and metal. Of course I would find you. How are you feeling."

“I'll make it. But why."

"I asked a priestess of Melitele to treat you."

"No, I mean, why did you save me?"

The elf had to pause and think for a second.

"For the same reason you spared me in Flotsam," he finally answered.

"That was…" Roche stammered and suddenly stopped, unable to find the words to describe the surge of emotions that had suddenly welled up in his chest.

"...a different time." Iorveth finished for him.

He nodded solemnly in acknowledgement.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Vodka. Vodka, please."

"Water will have to do. You're still running a fever."

Iorveth released his steely grip on his shoulders and hastened to a small table in the corner. In the uncomfortable silence, Roche took the time to take in his immediate surroundings.

He was laid flat on a mat on the floor, the lower half of his body covered in a thin fur blanket and his feet positioned towards the campfire in an attempt to keep them warm. His body was simultaneously hot and cold, burning from within while the freezing wind whipped and snapped at his skin. Autumn was approaching and cold northern nights were about to get colder.

Roche looked down and found that his clothes were not his own. He was dressed in a navy blue tunic and cream-coloured linen pants that were a little too small on him. Iorveth wore the exact same in green and black, and it fit his lithe figure perfectly. His bandana was still affixed in place, though his hair was let loose around his shoulders. It was the first time he had the chance to properly study the other outside of battle and he was startled to find the sight rather pleasing. The realisation sent a flush of heat straight up to his face.

Roche was attempting to loosen the tunic a little when the elf turned back around. He wondered if the pink blush dusting his cheeks was visible in the shadow of the fire.

"I undressed you, if that's what you're wondering."

"Where are my clothes?"

"Washed and dried, in that pile over there. Along with that hat of yours. Didn't know you had hair underneath that."

"What did you expect? Philippa Eilhart's face?"

Iorveth snorted.

"Still as witty on your deathbed. I'm not sure whether I should be impressed or annoyed."

"I'm not dying."

"Good."

The conversation ended abruptly as the elf settled himself next to him. Iorveth lifted the mug up to his lips awkwardly and Roche tried to sip it as best as he could. He was parched and wanted to chug it down, but knew it might aggravate his injuries. It wasn’t as if Iorveth was letting him drink it any faster anyway, so he took his time with it. Though Roche was the furthest thing from hungry, the cool water was a welcome relief for his overheating body.

A wave of nausea hit him just as he tried to sit up. It must have shown on his face, for the other touched a cool hand to his burning forehead and guided him into a more comfortable position. Contrary to what he had said, Roche felt like he might kick the bucket any time soon. Panic hit him like a bag of bricks and curled up squarely in his chest, shallowing his breaths and blowing wide his pupils. What if he didn't wake up? He didn't want to die with so much left unsaid.

In a temporary moment of madness, he reached out to grasp Iorveth's wrist. The contact surprised the other.

"Thank you," he whispered with all the earnesty he could muster.

"Get some sleep."

"Iorveth, I'm serious. I don't know how to repay you."

Iorveth went quiet, and Roche could tell that he was thinking. He tried not to disturb the silence.

"Promise me that you will never hunt the Scoia'tael ever again."

"You have my word." Roche tried to hold back his troubled thoughts, but eventually caved and added with a defeated sigh, "Though it's not like I have a reason to anymore, to be honest. My King is dead, his children are missing, and Temeria is about to be overrun by those whoresons. I don't know what else to do."

He wasn't sure why he was telling Iorveth this. Perhaps because there was no one else to listen to. Perhaps because he knew that Iorveth of all people would understand what it was like to have nowhere to call home. This little cave he occupied could hardly be compared a house by the marketplace, or the safe space in a lover's bed. Just as his thoughts drifted into the darkness, Iorveth's voice pulled him back to reality.

"Get better and continue the fight then."

"I don't know," he confided, "It just seems so hopeless. It's like my efforts thus far have been nothing but futile."

His words seemed to offend the elf, whose gaze immediately sharpened. Though it didn't show on his features, his anger came through the tone of his raised voice.

"How did you think we felt camping out in the forest outside of Flotsam? Fighting off yours and Loredo's men, searching for someone who would help us create a truly free state."

"... Hopeless."

"Exactly, dh'oine. If you have nothing to hope for, then make your own hope."

"It just...seems impossible right now."

"No one said you had to fight right now. Could be tomorrow, could be a year later. Who knows. Now get some ploughing sleep. The Vernon Roche I know wouldn't spout such rubbish. The fever must be frying your brain."

He was surprised to find Iorveth's irritation a welcome change. Few people knew him intimately, and even fewer dared to be honest. Never in a million years would Roche have imagined sleeping peacefully next to Iorveth of all people, but as soon as the elf draped the blanket over his body, he was quickly pulled into a deep slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roche and Iorveth break down a few walls.
> 
> EDIT LOG  
> 17 Jan: Changed up bits of the casual interrogation.  
> 24 Jan: Minor edits to the last two paragraphs :')

Roche awoke to the sting of the sunlight blazing in from the small opening in the ceiling. It must have been high noon, but the winds were still biting cold.

With the help of daylight, he was finally able to take in the modest surroundings properly. They were in a cave about the size of the bedroom he had back home, with a half-built cupboard and an overflowing chest tucked in the corner of the room. Near the entrance, Iorveth had hastily assembled a table covered with a stack of books and some stationery.

He attempted to sit up and was immediately reminded of his numerous wounds and weakened body. With a loud groan, he eased himself back into the mattress.

"You sleep like a log," came a gruff voice.

"Expecting a fragile twig?"

"You? Fragile? Never."

He turned his gaze to find Iorveth nursing the contents of a large pot on the fire. Sometime during his sleep, the elf had changed his shirt and presumably taken a bath. His wet hair clung to his neck and the sides of his face, further accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw and features. Roche pretended not to notice and brought up the first topic he could think of.

"Your men did a fine job at Vergen."

"They did. Though Henselt's numbers were much fewer than we had expected."

"Praise withstanding, about a quarter pulled out of that fight."

"That would account for the missing numbers from the scouts' count. Any idea why?"

"No."

Iorveth paused and considered Roche carefully. He could practically see the cogs turning in the elf's mind as he began to draw the connections.

"How did you know that it was a quarter of his men."

"Is this an interrogation?"

"Just trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. How did you know it was a quarter," Iorveth repeated. Roche believed him, but he didn't drop his guard.

"Wouldn't be special forces if I didn't know that," he answered cryptically.

"Arlen, the elf who had been captured, said that there were talks of a conspiracy against Henselt."

"Was there? I wasn't aware. My men and I were camped outside of the Kaedweni camp."

"And yet my scouts saw you meeting a group of dh'oine in the abandoned house on the hill. What was the meeting about?"

"Field meeting about the necrophages outside of the camp."

"That's rubbish and you know it. When Saskia was poisoned, you saved Geralt and helped him get Henselt's blood. Why."

"Just doing a favour for a friend."

"You're a lousy liar, Vernon," he declared with the satisfaction of a man who had just finished tying up his prey.

Roche didn't answer. He hated that arrogant smirk.

Iorveth ladled a generous helping of porridge into a wooden bowl and went over to help him sit up, much to Roche's relief. He was sure he was getting bed sores from laying around so much.

"The people of Vergen have you to thank," Iorveth suddenly confessed a few volumes down, "We never would have held the city if the Kaedwenians had descended at full force."

"Don't misunderstand my intentions. I just needed to weaken Henselt. That's all."

"For Temeria?"

"For Temeria."

Roche could have sworn that he saw the hostility in Iorveth's eye fade. He reached out for the bowl, but the elf already had a spoonful going his way, leaving him to wonder if this was another fever dream. Was having your mortal enemy cook and feed you some kind of fetish his brain had manifested?

The scalding hot porridge said otherwise and though he tried to mask the pain, nothing seemed to go by unnoticed. To his abject horror, the elf began blowing on his food to cool it down before feeding it to him. He supposed they were the furthest from mortal enemies now.

"You know, you're not bad for a dh'oine."

"Do I get some sort of prize for being decent?"

"You win my respect."

"Thought I already had it." He pretended to be hurt, and to his great surprise, Iorveth believed him.

"You've always had it," the elf murmured, his gaze fixated on the bowl.

The remnants of last night's sentimentality snuck up on him and he let it take him. Without missing a beat, he reached up with his good hand to grasp the other's forearm.

"You've always had mine, you know," he blurted out before he could regret it, "You're a fine swordsman, a great leader, and a cunning tactician. I've never met an opponent who thrilled or baffled me as much."

Iorveth was now searching his eyes, looking for some hint of mockery or dishonesty. When he found none, he lowered his gaze again and seemed to retreat into himself. Roche would soon follow as the embarrassment crept up his cheeks. The smooth grey ceiling was suddenly very interesting and he released his hold, letting his arm fall to his side as he tried to stave off regret.

"Sorry, didn't mean to get all mushy on you," he uttered hastily, trying to salvage the situation.

"Shut up and eat your food."

"Okay, okay."

When he turned back, the first thing that caught his attention was the way the tip of Iorveth's ear had turned bright red.

_________________________

Dol Blathanna was not the jewel of racial equality, but neither was it its worst piece. Up in the mountainous region, the path through the thick undergrowth was lightly trodden and infested with insects, but the untouched greenery and crisp air more than made up for the inconveniences. 

And when the thick vegetation gave way to a cascading waterfall of pristine, sun-warmed waters, Vernon Roche was glad that the elves were appointed the guardians of the land. Humans would have destroyed it in a blink of an eye.

"It's not big, but it will have to do."

"Not big? Iorveth, this is beautiful."

"Your kind has clearly not seen beauty."

"Well excuse me for appreciating the small things in life," he snapped back, annoyed. Roche had more to say but bit back his words out of courtesy.

After spending three terribly dull days cooped up in the cave, he had asked for a place where he could properly wash whilst the herbs still suppressed his fever. Iorveth had promised to take him to a body of water, but he hadn't expected an almost crystalline waterfall that hugged the crest of a mountainous ridge, where he could peek at the evergreen valleys through the gaps in the leaves and listen to the chirp of birds hiding in the luxuriant canopy.

The sense of meditative peace was disturbed when he felt a pair of hands pulling up his tunic. Immediately, Roche snapped around and took a few unsteady steps backwards.

"What are you doing?"

"Helping you. You don't intend to bathe fully clothed, do you?"

"No."

"Then come back here. I already saw you naked once when I changed you out of your armour."

Burying his embarrassment, he took a few apprehensive steps forward. His arm was still sprained and his broken ribs restricted much of his movement. Iorveth was wholly unbothered as he slipped off his tunic with relative ease, and thankfully stopped short of loosening his pants.

"Don't need help for this, do you?"

"I'll manage," Roche sputtered as he turned around. Making his way to the edge of the water, he placed his neatly-folded pants and slippers on a nearby rock and as if his life depended upon it, hastily entered the pool. It was a little too cold to be comfortable, but he welcomed the sensation nonetheless and the cover it provided.

He couldn't shake off the feeling of being watched and turned to find Iorveth staring.

The elf immediately looked away and started taking off his own clothes. The urge to say something snarky disappeared as he caught a glimpse of his body that slowly unravelled before him. Iorveth was all tan skin and lean muscle - a slender body carved up by scars that accentuated the well-defined lines. He kept his bandanna on but loosened the jet black strands of hair that fell neatly by his shoulders. Roche looked away in the nick of time and sunk his body further, suddenly feeling quite conscious about their state of undress.

The splash of water behind him confirmed that Iorveth had decided to join him. He didn't know what else he expected, and only knew that the other was getting a little too close for comfort.

"Come here," Iorveth commanded, "I'll wash your back."

"I'll manage."

"You can't even take off your tunic."

He didn't have a retort, so he bore his back to the elf and hissed softly when the washcloth brushed against his skin.

"Are there other elves living in Dol Blathanna?"

"There are, but I don't know how they'll react when they find out I'm harbouring the commander of the Blue Stripes."

"And the rest of the Scoia'tael?"

"Is this an interrogation, Vernon Roche?"

"Professional curiosity."

"They're back in Vergen, awaiting the fight with the Nilfgaardians."

"Why aren't you with them?"

"Because I found you," came Iorveth's dry answer.

A tinge of guilt welled up in Roche's chest. What if Iorveth was on his way to Vergen, came across him, and decided to abandon his mission for the sake of his life? The thought sent a shiver through his very being.

"I've been through worse. Go help them."

"It'll be too late by the time I make it there."

"Not necessarily. The black ones would take at least two weeks to finish plundering South Aedirn. You still have time."

He turned around and was met with the torn look on the elf's face. It wrenched his heart in two, and not knowing what to do, Roche took hold of the washcloth with his good hand. He began scrubbing Iorveth's chest, but decided it was far too intimate and waded his way behind the other. Neither of them bothered to strike conversation as Roche washed his back in slow and soothing circles.

It was only after they turned away to wash their intimates did Roche bring up Druids when, much to their surprise, they managed to find common ground about how every last one of them seemed to be nuts.

The sun was already beginning to set when Iorveth squeezed the last drops of water out of his hair and Roche looked on with a tinge of jealousy. In the way of the practicality that was expected of him, he had kept it short on the sides and just a few centimetres long on top. He had once attempted to grow it out into a ponytail and was met with mockery from his men, who attempted to braid flowers into his hair while he was asleep. Iorveth laughed when he relayed this story - a carefree sound that he had never heard from the elf.

The walk back to the cave was much faster than he had remembered, and he attributed it to the ease at which they made conversation. It was like chatting with an old friend and for a brief moment, he believed it to be true.

  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tension between them builds and Roche can longer hold it back.
> 
> EDIT LOG  
> 17 Jan: Edited linguistical errors. How did I confuse present and past tense?!??!? Added a bit of self-reflection on Roche's part so that I didn't end up randomly dismissing the atrocities he is responsible for. Also expanded on the scene a little. Aka I added lots of things. Moral of the story is I shouldn't write askdjwelkfhw at 1am and immediately yeet said work into the universe.  
> 18 Jan: Edited the last three paragraphs for better flow.

Roche knew that Iorverth wasn’t sleeping, but he didn’t want to prod. He stared up at the blank ceiling of the cave instead, thinking of the times they had clashed and cursed at each other with nothing but killing intent. The irony of their current situation was not lost on him, though he supposed hardship brought beings closer together.

“I’ll leave for Vergen tomorrow morning,” Iorveth declared mostly to himself.

The sudden words startled Roche out of his thoughts.

“That sounds more like the Iorveth I know. Good luck.”

“You’re more than welcome to stay here.”

“That’s very kind of you. But once I recover, I intend to head out and look for the remainder of the Blue Stripes. Try to re-assemble everyone and join the fight against the Nilfgaardians. I can’t just sit idly by while they conquer the North.”

“I understand,” came a voice so small, he nearly missed it over the rustling of the leaves. Iorveth almost sounded disappointed, and he didn’t expect to feel the ache in his heart.

“I guess this is goodbye for now, elf.”

“Best of luck with your fight, dh’oine.”

“You too. Take care. I wouldn’t have anyone to feud with if you kicked the bucket.”

An awkward silence stretched between them.

“I’ll ask the priestess to come by and see you tomorrow afternoon,” Iorveth added in a rush.

“Thank you.”

They laid awake next to each other for a long while, listening to the sounds of each other's breathing. He had more to say, but he didn’t know what.

Roche’s thoughts went back to the moment at the waterfall once again. He hadn’t imagined it, right? He saw the way Iorveth looked at his body, and he couldn’t help the way his own heart began to race whenever he glanced at the elf’s naked form. He thought about how it would have been like to hold that tight body against his own, or to be held in those slender and deceptively strong arms. To feel those lips on his skin, or to caress his stomach. To feel heated breath wash over his neck, and to elicit sighs against his chest.

And then he thought himself mad and unworthy.

It was Iroveth, an elf, and he was Vernon Roche, their number one public enemy. He had killed his brethren, thwarted their attempts at acquiring provisions, and slain his fellow Scoia'tael leaders. He should have been beyond redemption, and yet Iorveth had plucked him from the jaws of death and nursed him back to health. That had to count for something, right?

Maybe he wasn't irredeemable. Maybe he was worthy. He allowed himself a little bit of hope that opened the gateway for longing.

The more he thought about it, the more restless his body became. He was just dying on the battlefield a week ago and would soon be returning to war again. Tonight would be the last time he would see Iorveth for a long while, if ever. As he cast a wary glance at Iorveth who was curled up in his blanket, he wondered what he had to lose for trying.

“Iorveth?”

“What is it.”

“I’m cold.”

“Do you want my blanket?”

“It might not be enough,” he risked, knowing it could go either way at this point.

“So what do you expect me to do,” Iorveth snarled as he sat up, clearly irritated until he saw the way Roche was looking at him. Something froze in the elf and he had this blank look about his face.

“Come sleep next to me,” Roche whispered, the bravery in his voice a front for all the fear, apprehension, and excitement that was swirling in his chest. When the other didn’t respond, he figured he'd spoken too softly, but would honestly rather die than repeat what he just said. He simply rolled onto his good side and shut his eyes as something sickening wrenched his stomach.

They were at a standstill for at least five minutes, with Iorveth not moving a bone and Roche trying not to breathe. He shouldn’t have done that. He would have been content with them just being friends. They had a connection back there, and he had ruined it.

Roche was busy burying himself in a mountain of regret when the first rustle of fabric sounded. He flinched and stiffened, every muscle in his body tense and ready to spring. The rustling and padded footsteps grew closer and closer, until he felt the draft of a mat being laid down and the warmth of another body creeping close to his. He almost wanted to collapse from the wait and forced himself not to turn around.

“Like this?” the voice purred next to his ear. It was deep and inviting and quite unlike the Iorveth he knew, and it sent a shiver up his spine.

“Yeah. Just like that,” he heard himself reply as Iorveth settled himself against his back.

The cautious exploration continued with neither knowing how much and how far the other would take it. Roche leaned his body into Iorveth’s, and he felt the elf inch closer in response. An apprehensive hand found its way to his waist, and he pulled it down further and held it gently while he pretended to get comfortable. A face settled into the crook of his neck and he sighed happily in response.

There it was, the scent of rain and earth, mixed into one alluring being. He should have felt content, but his racing heart and shallow breaths told a different story.

When the advances stopped, and Roche's body began to do the thinking for him. He pushed his bottom up against Iorveth’s crotch and felt the body behind him stiffen. Excitement pulsed through his veins and he began to grind into the other’s hips, the movements small and frustrating but obvious enough that his intent couldn't be construed. Iorveth's reaction was instantaneous. A set of sharp teeth found his ear just as fingers now traced down to his groin, and Roche didn’t hold back the deep, rumbling sounds as the elf stroked his half-hard cock through his pants.

There was no turning back, and the knowledge loosened Roche up considerably. He was no longer conscious of the way he looked and reached behind to grope whatever skin he could, touching and breathing and grinding into the other as a haze of lust descended upon his rationality. 

But just when he wished it wouldn't stop, the touches suddenly did.

"Iorveth?" he called out, uncertain and confused.

"I'm still here," the elf reassured, "Just shifting positions."

Iorveth moved away and Roche laid on his back, watching with curiosity as the other began to undo the tie that held his pants up. The elf knelt between his legs and gripped his rapidly hardening member, stroking and teasing the engorged organ before he lowered his mouth onto it. A cry ripped out of his chest as the wet heat enveloped his cock, and Roche had to stop himself from bucking up into the welcoming cavern. His body was still riddled with injuries he had yet to recover from.

“Let me suck you off too,” Roche groaned and was immediately surprised by how needy he sounded. An emerald eye glimmered at him, bright and alert despite the darkness.

“Hurry,” he had to beg.

Without another word, Iorveth turned himself around and Roche’s mouth watered at the sight of the hefty bulge in his pants. He reached up and pulled the strings loose. It took every fiber of restraint to stop himself from moaning at the sight of the organ as he eased it out of the linen.

It was a strange sight - like a human’s cock, but the head was longer and more tapered. He reached out and caught a bead of precum with the tip of his tongue. It was sweet and slightly musky, and slipped the entire head into his mouth and greedily sucked. The noise that Iorveth made his cock twitch visibly.

“Gentler, dh’oine,” the elf protested, “My cock isn’t one of your falchions.”

“You’ll have to excuse me, I’m not as skilled with alternate weapons. Though perhaps better than you might be.”

He instantly regretted his words, for it immediately spiralled into a competition. He spotted Iorveth taking a break to wet two fingers, but before he could throw a wayward insult, the same fingers were teasing his puckered entrance. Roche bent a leg up to allow him easier access, all the while working harder on the stiff member before him. He was determined to win this with just his mouth.

It proved to be the wrong strategy. When the fingers slipped into his ass and brushed against his prostate, Roche let out a muffled yelp at the sudden intrusion, the muscles of his throat clenching around Iorveth’s cock and making the elf groan. Suppressing a gag, he continued to work the shaft fervently and smirked when he felt the erection swell even larger against his tongue. He leaned up and took every inch of the elf's member into his mouth, burying his nose into the nest of black curls and inhaling the giddying musk till his head spun. He swore he heard Iorveth curse.

Roche held out for an admirable amount of time, but the prodding fingers began to muddy his mind with pleasure. The combination of pressure around his cock, the organ thrusting in and out of his mouth, and the relentless attack on his rear proved too much. His resistance was rendered useless and even though he could feel his climax building, there was nothing he could do about it. With his uninjured hand, he clung onto Iorveth’s hip tightly, barely hanging on as he drowned in the carnal pleasure.

“Iorveth- Coming!”

That was all the warning he could give before he arched his hips up and spurted his seed - hard. The elf withdrew in time and caught the pearly white fluid in his hand. He washed it off in a nearby basin before returning to gloat.

“What were you saying about you being better at this,” Iorveth mocked, but Roche was in no mood.

“Shut up and fuck my mouth. Hurry.”

Carnal hunger gripped the elf and he caved immediately, shuffling over till he was kneeling with his cock inches away from Roche's face. Roche opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, moaning in satisfaction as he welcomed the hardness into him. Slowly, Iorveth began to roll his hips, the tip of his erection brushing against the back of Roche’s throat with every thrust. His eyes watered at the contact but he continued to press on, exhaling through his nostrils as he did his best to manage the discomfort.

It suddenly dawned on him that this wasn't one of his fever dreams. He was laying here in the elf's house and letting Iorveth do whatever he wanted with his face, and even though he knew he should have felt embarrassed, there was nothing but excitement building in his chest. His spent cock twitched as hunger knawed at his loins. He wanted to see and hear Iorveth cum.

“Vernon, I’m close. Back up.”

He refused and wrapped his good arm around the elf’s slender waist, locking him squarely in place. Greedily, he sucked even harder, hollowing out his cheeks as he forced Iorveth towards climax.

“Shit, Vernon! Stop!”

The elf tipped over the edge in a split second, a deep moan reverberating through the cave as he spurted his cum into his mouth. Roche watched Iorveth's twisted expression with pride and swallowed eagerly, relishing the taste of his seed on his tongue.

Even after Iorveth descended from his high, Roche was still licking his cock with an expression that the elf seemed to find disdainful. A smug expression he supposed, of a man who had lost the battle but won the war. He certainly felt that way.

“Bl'oede dh'oine, you’d better not die before we meet again,” Iorveth cursed, though his voice was nothing but uncharacteristically tender.

Roche fell back into the mat and chuckled haplessly, every ounce of strength completely drained from his body. He lamented not doing this a day or two earlier.

“I won’t. Make sure you stay alive too.”

“You’d best sleep before your fever burns up again.”

“Give me a kiss first.”

“What?”

“Kiss me. It’s how us humans make promises.”

“Stop spouting bullshit.”

A wide grin spread across Roche’s features and he stretched lazily. Though the rest of his body was thoroughly relaxed, his eyes and brain were working doggedly. That indignant expression. The beautiful tattoo that wrapped down his neck and flowed with the lines of his body. Those strong hands that were trying to lay their mats out properly. Roche tried to memorise every feature, but sleep was beginning to fog his brain. Eventually he admitted defeat and closed his heavy eyelids.

Just as he was about to fall asleep, a light peck on his cheek woke him from light slumber. Without looking, he pulled Iorveth down onto the mat with him and held him as close as he could without aggravating his own injuries. He definitely heard a curse, but Iorveth didn’t otherwise struggle in his hold and he considered it one of his more important triumphs of the year.

Soon. He was sure they would meet again soon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth leaves to join the fight in Vergen and Roche is wracked with guilt.

When Roche awoke with the first rays of dawn, the only trace of Iorveth he could find was the lingering musk that clung to his clothes. Despite himself, his heart sunk straight to his stomach with the heavy cloud of dejection.

Though he supported the elf’s decision to fight and knew that there were a million good reasons why he wouldn’t and shouldn’t have said a final goodbye, he couldn’t extinguish that little flame of hope that he had carried into bed last night. They were both men of war and utility however, so Roche fully understood above all else.

Still, it would have been nice though.

A small loaf of bread and filled waterskin awaited him on the table and he was once again reminded of Iorveth’s compassion. He wondered how he could even begin to repay him and set about building the half-finished cupboard to keep his thoughts at bay.

_________________________

At the first patter of light footsteps outside, Roche lunged for the dagger in his pile of belongings and hid in a corner that the light didn’t touch. The worst of scenarios played in his head as he flattened himself against the wall and waited with baited breath.

“Eldon? Are you there,” he heard an unfamiliar female voice call out.

It took him a moment to remember who Eldon was and a different kind of panic gripped him. He immediately scrambled to hide his armour and clothing, and finally decided to stash it underneath the mishmash of clothes in the chest.

“I’m here, in the cave,” he announced after he lowered the lid and scrambled to sit by the fire, pretending that everything was alright despite his still-racing heart.

Iorveth told the priest that his name was Eldon and that he was an unremarkable Temerian soldier. Vernon Roche’s very name was a curse to the elves and his presence at Dol Blathanna was complete sacrilege, so it was paramount that his identity was kept a secret.

Seconds later, a young lass in loose red robes and a white headscarf stepped in. He rushed over to help her with her small carrying case, which was surprisingly heavy for its size.

“Ah, Eldon. It’s nice to see that you’re well. You don’t know me, but I’m a priestess of Melitele.”

“I heard that I’m alive because of you. How could I ever repay you.”

She flashed him a cryptic smile and motioned for him to sit by the fire.

“It isn’t me you should thank. You were already patched up when I arrived in the morning. The elf denied it, but he definitely spent the night treating your wounds. Come, lift up your tunic so that I can inspect your wounds.”

Roche’s mouth slacked open at the news. It was only when the priestess cleared her throat did he remember the reason they were here. He quickly stripped off his tunic as she dug around her bag for a vial filled with murky yellow liquid. A part of him wanted to reject the unknown potion.

“Relax, it’s just medicine,” she soothed, “I thought only elves were paranoid, but you Temerians are just as skittish.”

“Have you treated many in your time,” he asked, trying to extract information about where any wayward soldiers might be. She doused a white cloth in the liquid and began applying it to his wounds. It stung, but not enough to cause him to flinch.

“Too many over the past week. We set up a field hospital in an abandoned village down by the foot of Dol Blathanna, but the beds are overrun with patients.”

“I should be down there with them,” he remarked, the guilt in his voice palpable. His countrymen had bled while he pranced around in the waterfall.

“And yet the elf was kind enough to grant you shelter in his quarters. But you should come as soon as you can. Perhaps you might see some familiar faces there. There is a man they call Natalis who-.”

Roche flinched hard and the priestess almost spilled the contents of her vial.

“Natalis? John Natalis? How is he? Is he alright,” he suddenly spurted out and straightened up. His mind was racing with the excitement of renewed hope.

“Not so fast. I’ll need to finish the treatment first.”

_________________________

After the priestess left, Roche finished building the cupboard to a standard he considered satisfactory, collected his items from the chest, and left his chaperone in the mess of clothes.

 _A silly hat,_ Iorveth had called it. Maybe he would appreciate a silly hat, especially if it gave them an excuse to meet again.

He descended the mountain while the sun was still bright, his gambeson bundled in a makeshift satchel and his weapons secured to a belt hung low on his hip. The closer he edged to reality, the heavier his steps became. And yet he continued on doggedly towards the field hospital, driven by his mission to find Natalis. As he approached a clearing marked by a cluster of four shanty houses, trained ears picked up on the groans of several men.

Roche paused just behind the cover of the bushes. He was never one for caution, but he now had to think about how to get to Natalis without alerting the others. Iorveth’s safety might be compromised if the priestess knew who he was. He was just beginning to make headway when the rhythmic clink of metal in the distance caught his ears.

__“Fuck.”_ _

He turned to see a dozen iron-clad heads and a feathered black helmet five hundred meters away, making a beeline for the hospital as they marched down the dirt path. One commander, two archers, two Halberts, and eight infantrymen. He had three minutes to act. The choice was obvious.

All thoughts of Iorveth evaporated as he sprinted towards the field hospital and the first priestess he could reach.

“The Black Ones approach. Inside. Now,” he commanded as he grabbed her arm, practically shoving her into the open door nearby. She let out a terrified squeak, drawing the attention of a group of six soldiers that had been sitting by the fire.

“Black Ones approaching,” he yelled at them, “Ready your swords!”

They scrambled to put on the remainder of their armour amidst a frenzy of shouts.

The first house he went into was composed solely of injured men, so he ordered them to board up the doors and windows. In the second, he found a very surprised Silas crouched by a bed and told him to get his crossbow ready and his ass out immediately. He found another two soldiers who could fight in the third house. At least the odds had evened out somewhat, though he had no idea the extent of his own soldiers’ wounds.

When Roche looked back, the group of Nilfgaardian scouts were running towards their position. He had about a minute till the archers would fire their crossbows and the infantry would draw their swords.

He nearly broke down the fourth door with a kick and rushed inside to find John Natalis laying in the only bed. The rest of the men lay on thin mats on the floor while the priestesses tended to them. The commander sat up immediately, his eyes wide as saucers.

“Roche?”

“I’m Eldon, not Roche,” he blurted out before he could think his answer through, “We’ll speak later, Commander. Twelve Black Ones approach, most likely scouts. It’ll be a matter of time before they find the hospital. We need to get everyone out of here.”

Natalis nodded and Roche grabbed a crossbow on his way out. He hurried next to Silas who had already had his bolt trained towards the enemy who were now charging towards them.

“Get the archers. I’ll take the left one. One the count of three. One, two, three.”

Like clockwork, they fired their arrows simultaneously. The bolts whizzed through the air, Silas’ piercing the enemy dead in the face and Roche’s into the archer’s thigh. He drew his Falchion and cursed that his left arm was still sprained.

Forgetting his injuries and his lack of armour, Roche charged straight into battle with a hoarse shout, gunning straight for the Nilfgaardian commander. He saw the condescending look in his enemy’s eyes and took advantage of the underestimation to strike. The gleam of the steel sword came slicing through the air, but he dodged it nimbly and swung his falchion hard and fast, slicing through the fabric of his enemy’s thigh as blood sprayed across his tunic. The resulting cry was audible over the sound of clashing metal.

One strong kick to the gut was all it took for the Nilfgaardian commander to stagger backwards, and one jab of Roche’s sword to drive the blade straight into the enemy’s face. Just as he heard the satisfying crack of steel penetrating skull, a cry behind him drew his attention. Quickly, he abandoned his sword and twirled around, just in time to dodge another blade that barely missed his arm. What he wasn’t ready for however, was the sudden bash to his cheek.

The blow sent him staggering back, but it wasn’t enough to throw him off balance. He charged right back at the assailant, channeling the pain into anger and manifesting it into a vicious punch that collided with the soldier's nose, snapping the fragile bones under his knuckles. It was a mistake.

The grip of his enemy’s head in his hands. The sickening scent of blood. The sight of fallen Temerians. There wasn’t any warning before the fires of rage engulfed his rationality.

One by one he cut down his enemies, driven by the uncontrollable urge to slay every last one of them, his humanity burned away in the throes of the skirmish. He didn’t even hear the way he roared as he stabbed his last enemy to death with a dagger.

When he finally came to, part of his tunic was heavy with blood an his breath came in heavy pants. The other soldiers were staring on, their mouths agape and their swords hung loosely by their sides.

It was Silas' voice that pulled him back to reality. As soon as he abandoned the vehemence of the battlefield, it was shame and embarrassment that flooded his chest and choked his throat. His head spun hard and his guts thrashed violently, and Roche could hold himself up no longer. His legs failed him and he fell to the ground by a freshly slain corpse.

Sickened.

He felt sickened by himself. He had lost control of himself in battle again, to a point where he wasn’t even sure how many he had killed. The splitting pain in the side of his ribs exacerbated the nausea and he wanted to just run away right then.

“Are you alright?” Silas asked as he rushed forward, his concern demanding a yes.

“I’m Eldon, not Roche,” he declared to an incredibly confused Silas, “I’m fine, it’s just my injuries. Hurts like shit. Let’s get ready to move out before the rest of the Black Ones find us.”

Silas looked down at him, arm crossed and brow furrowed. In true special forces fashion, he immediately went along with the ploy without missing a beat.

“You guys go ahead, I’ll help Eldon out,” Silas called to the remaining men around him. Three had died in the fray and another was limping away.

When they were out of earshot, Silas suddenly knelt down and hugged him so hard, he could barely breathe.

“Roche, what the fuck,” he sobbed, emotions choking him up to a point where he could barely enunciate his words, “I thought you were fucking dead. It’s so good to see you but what the fuck.”

Silas sobbed into Roche’s nape for a long while and Roche could do little but pat his back and reassure him that he was really back. Guilt was beginning to eat him up again.

“We’d best get back,” Roche urged with a pat. “And don’t forget, my name is Eldon for the time being.”

The archer sniffled and finally detached himself from Roche. There were wet patches on his tunic and snot was dripping from his nose, and he tried to clean himself up as much as possible.

“Why Eldon though, what’s up with that?”

“I- I erm,” he stuttered, thinking hard about his cover story for the first time, “I fell into a coma and an elf saved me. I couldn’t possibly tell them my name, so I just told them that it was Eldon. There’s a priestess here who knows the elf, so I don’t want her to know.”

To Roche’s relief, Silas immediately bought the story. He supposed it had to do with the trust he held in him as commander of the Blue Stripes. Trust he broke when he spent days frolicking around with Iorveth of all people. And despite seeing everything his countrymen were going through, he couldn't shake off the heart-wrenching desire to see Iorveth's face.

He never hated himself more.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roche reunites with the rest of the Blue Stripes and takes the remains of the Temerian Army with him further north. He meets Radovid for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends I'm so sorry for my extended absence. I've been struggling at school and to be honest, my mental health isn't doing so good these days. I managed to carve out some time to write this transition chapter and I've just gotten started on a few paragraphs of the next too.
> 
> I hope you guys haven't gotten bored ;__; Iorveth is showing back up in the next one and I promise it'll get more interesting ;___;

John Natalis had broken his femur, Roche would come to learn. An especially nasty attack had left him crippled, and the only way he could get around was on a cart drawn by his men. There were times when Roche detected his commander’s overwhelming embarrassment, and in those times he would pull Natalis’ cart for hours on end as they marched through the Mahakam Mountains. 

The terrain was jagged and grey, and the path was as unpredictable as it was precarious. Sometimes they would stumble upon wide terrain with the occasional harpy, and sometimes it was a narrow crevice where a small misstep would send them hurtling over the edge.

Then came the day when the road proved too much for them and the wheel of the cart snapped off. Natalis was already in great pain, so Roche called for a break and set out to find a suitable campsite with Silas and one of the younger soldiers named Anders.

They had just rounded the corner of a mountain path when the crackle of fire caught Roche’s eye.

“People. Get down,” Roche commanded and pushed them behind some bushes. Silas and Anders followed suit.

“Where,” the young soldier asked.

“Along the side of the mountain.”

“Eldon, I don’t see it.”

“Look harder and tell me when you do.”

The priestess who knew Iorveth had returned to Dol Blathanna, but while he tried to re-establish his real name, some of the soldiers had already taken to calling him Eldon. He eventually gave up and adopted it as his middle name.

“I see it! Six hundred meters away, right between the cluster of flowers and the large cedar tree.”

Roche nodded in approval. It had taken many tries to get here, but Anders was finally beginning to get the hang of it. He was certain the man would make a fine scout, but not right now.

They approached under the cover with their weapons drawn, creeping from bush to bush as they advanced upon the camp. When they were close enough to spot two blue-clad soldiers together, Roche suddenly stopped.

“Silas, you see the same thing, right?”

“Shit. Is that Ves and Shorty?”

“I think it is. The two of you stay here, I’ll approach them.”

He slowly crept towards them with the intention of surprising them, but the sound of Shorty’s voice made his heart leap a few times over. Unable to contain his excitement any further, he sheathed his weapon and began walking towards the pair with the biggest smile on his face. He watched their hostility turn into disbelief and finally melt into happiness, and then let Ves run towards him and spring into his open arms.

"Roche!! You're alive!"

He hadn't realised how much he'd missed Ves’ company and squeezed her tight - a gesture that made her gasp in surprise. The commander had always tried to draw a clear divide between them as commander and soldier, but he had resolved to chip away at that very wall he had built up. Back on Dol Blathanna, he realised that it was only natural to care for his family. They only untangled themselves when Silas and Anders approached.

The small group of Blue Stripes and Temerian soldiers had been camping out in a cave in the mountains for a week, surviving on the land, protecting the people living in the outskirts of Carerras, and running errands for the dwarves in the nearby settlements. Word had travelled of Roche and Ves' contributions in helping Geralt lift the curse, and the nonhumans had come to learn of Roche's plot against Henselt. Despite their war crimes in the Mahakaman Foothills, they seemed ready to forgive the Blue Stripes and Ves wasn't about to turn down any goodwill they could get.

Their hideout seemed safe enough from the Nilfgaardians, so Roche carried Natalis on his back through the path and re-grouped in the spacious cavern.

Roche shelved his joy as he re-assumed the role of commander, consolidating their resources, assigning tasks, and orienting himself with the landscape.

Natalis finally fell asleep after they’d reapplied herbs to his infected wound, and Roche welcomed the moment when he could sit untroubled by the fire as the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon. The weight of responsibility had made him heavy with fatigue once again, and whatever rejuvenation he had experienced with Iorveth had been washed away.

He had barely begun poking the fire when Ves settled next to him. She was skittish, but it didn’t show as she nonchalantly passed him a bowl of stew. A few men had gone hunting and caught themselves a wild boar, and Thirteen cooked up the first decent meal they’d had in a week. Roche’s mouth watered at the smell and he desperately spooned the stew into his mouth.

"So what happened to you," she asked in the most bored tone she could muster. It didn't work, and Roche could hear the curiosity and impatience in her intonation.

"Long story," he answered between chews.

"We have all night." 

“No we don’t. I need to observe the night watch.”

“You’re not weaseling your way out of this one, Roche. So you can tell me now while we’re still alone, or you can tell me in front of the others.”

Once something caught Ves’ attention, she would sink her teeth into it and refuse to let go till she got a satisfactory answer. It didn't matter if the person in question was a friend or enemy. Roche knew he couldn't back down.

“After we got split up on the battlefield, I managed to kill a good handful of Black Ones, but an archer shot me twice in my leg. Was clobbered in the head after that and blacked out.”

“And?”

Ves was avoiding Roche’s gaze. She always did this when she knew she was broaching an uncomfortable topic - giving him the space he needed without letting up on the pressure. The commander paused to eat as well, not quite looking forward to finishing the story. He didn’t know what Ves would think, and the last thing he wanted was a negative reaction. The thought of lying crossed his mind but he quickly shoved it away. He had promised Iorveth that he would make reparations for his behaviour against the elves and hiding his kindness would be doing a great disservice to their race.

“I was saved by an elf.”

Ves suddenly stilled and Roche froze. She seemed to lose herself in her thoughts for a terse moment, and Roche only dared breathe when her fingers moved again.

“Did the elf know who you were?”

“No.”

“Were you wearing your armour?” 

“Yes.”

“Don’t lie to me,” she berated, disappointment rich in her voice. Roche would have preferred she’d punched him instead. “So the elf knew you were Blue Stripes and saved you. Why.”

Roche sighed hard. He should have known better than to lie.

“I’d spared his life once.”

“Scoia'tael?”

“Yes.”

“So now you owe him your life. Could come back to bite you in the ass, Roche.”

“It wont.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He’s not like that.”

“You and I know that the elves are untrustworth-”

"I said he’s not like that.”

The tone of his voice made Ves flinch. He could feel the heat rise to his cheeks and the anger bubble in his stomach. He wasn't sure what or who he was angry at.

“Look, Ves. I've been doing a lot of reflecting. I let my hatred for the Scoia’tael blind me and fester into something ugly. I want to change.”

“I believe you,” she quickly resolved and he felt the anger even off. Neither knew how to redirect the conversation, so they ate in silence for a long while.

“This elf… He had a name?”

“He didn’t tell me. I told him I was Eldon.”

“No wonder the fresh faces keep calling you that.”

"Yeah. Heard anything about Saskia's Vergen," he asked as a means of deflection. Ves snatched up the opportunity as quickly as possible. The Scoia'tael had never been an easy topic to talk about and she seemed relieved to have a way out of it.

"It fell two days ago. They didn't stand a chance."

“Hmm...”

“The elf went off to fight?”

“Mm.”

“I heard that some of the survivors are fleeing back to Temeria. Maybe we’ll see him there.” 

“Maybe.”

“He’ll be alright.”

“I hope so.”

“Hope...”

There was a small crack in her voice, followed by another stretch of silence that told Roche that she was contemplating something important.

“An oren for your thoughts,” he finally asked as he mopped up the last drop of stew.

“Hope,” she repeated glumly, “Seems like a stupid concept, don’t you think. We spent our youth fighting for Temeria and then some asshole with a crown comes and tramples on our efforts. Like it didn’t mean anything.”

“Wondered that myself when I was dying on the battlefield.”

“And did you come to a conclusion? Because I haven’t.”

“Yeah. That I should just do whatever the fuck I want to because who knows what’s going to happen tomorrow."

His honesty made Ves laugh.

"That's not a bad way to think about it." 

"The march over gave me time to think. Never really had the opportunity before to quieten down and reflect on what we'd done."

"A fuck ton, that's what."

"Yeah. Ever thought about what you might do if we had to lay down our arms?" 

"Are you implying that we have to," Ves murmured, and the despair in her voice made him panic.

"Fuck no. I was just thinking that we've spent our lives paving the way for the future and completely forgotten to live in the moment."

“Wow, Roche. That's quite philosophical."

"I've become quite the poet."

"Thought you were just a pretty face with nothing behind those beautiful eyes.”

The tease didn’t bother Roche and on the contrary, did wonders for his mood. He missed Ves’ playful jabs as much as he'd missed Iorveth’s insults.

“Very funny. But anyway. No one said we had to hope now. Could be tomorrow, could be a year later. I’ll make my own hope if I have to.”

Ves flashed him a cryptic smile just as his other men peeked around the corner. 

_________________________

Roche wouldn't admit it, but the sight of the monolithic hull and billowing sails made his heart pound.

Natalis had stayed behind back in Mahakam to recover and Roche had mustered up the rest who would follow, fighting through the battle-scorched fields of Temeria and picking up pockets of wayward soldiers along their trek.

By the time they'd reached the outskirts of Novigrad, he had four hundred men under his command and Radovid personally sent a messenger for him and only him.

So here he was on the docks of Novigrad with his equipment piled high on a nearby barrel, letting some prick pat him from neck to toe while a few others watched on. The messenger had been dumbstruck by the sight of him pulling daggers out from every nook and cranny, and only recovered when Roche took his first step onto the plank.

“You were right to come straight away, " he hurried after him, "His Majesty King Radovid the Fifth does not like to wait.”

“Name me a monarch who does,” Roche answered drily and received no answer.

The young man had deflected all his attempts at conversation and even after their day-long ride together, he didn’t know exactly what he was doing here. Given the size of the forces he had amassed in the past few weeks however, he reckoned they were about to be extended a formal invitation into the war.

It wasn't a conversation he was quite ready to have and not especially in such a tense environment. The thud of his heavy boots drew attention even over the unrelenting slosh of the waves, and the cobalt blue of his gambeson stood stark against the garish red slathered across every conceivable surface.

The coils of rope were as thick as his arm and the wooden beams towered far above the nearest building, their magnitude compounding the horrid feelings of insignificance that had suddenly welled up in his chest. He couldn't wait to return to a place where his existence mattered.

As he neared the stern, he saw the crowned head of Radovid peeking over the railings of the quarterdeck. Adrenaline pumped through his veins at full force and his muscles tensed inexplicably.

“You got here sooner than I thought,” the monarch called out as he sauntered down the staircase. It was the first time he was seeing Radovid in person and if the scorn in his eyes hadn't betrayed the youth in his voice, Roche might have thought him a youthful, level-headed individual.

“Your Majesty. I thought it would be rude to make you wait and set off immediately,” Roche replied, resisting the urge to gag at his own mannerisms. He was thoroughly hated back in Foltest’s court, but it didn’t mean he was nescient to its ways. The commander knew every last line of court etiquette though he more often than not chose to ignore it.

Today however, was not one of those times. He was skilled, but he was also terribly alone.

“Didn’t think you’d amount to much, but look at you. Turning up at my doorstep with hundreds at your command. Where is Constable Natalis?”

“Tending to other matters.”

“So he is alive. Tell him that I wish to see him.”

“He's currently tending to other matters and you may be better off sending a messenger for him. What would you like from us, your majesty?”

“Straight to the point? Very well. I wish for the support of the Temerian Partisans.”

“I assume this means that Temeria will have its independence after the war.”

“You have my word. I'll work it out with Natalis.”

“We have four hundred men ready to fight back against the Nilfgardians but no means of doing so.”

"A trivial matter," Radovid dismissed in a manner that made Roche sick, "Talk to my aide. We will see to it that your men are appropriately armed and fed.”

“And where will you have us stationed?”

“In my camp."

"With all due respect your majesty, I don't think some of the men will take kindly to that suggestion."

"I assume that minority includes you."

Roche had no answer but held Radovid's gaze anyway. He let the king tear him apart with his eyes - raking burning trails of judgement from head to toe and then back up. It was a difficult juggle between the integrity of his country and their need for support, and he secretly wished Natalis were here in his stead. Politics were for vipers, and he often felt like a field mouse lost in the thicket.

"Oxenfurt, Crow’s Perch and the Crossroads," Radovid finally spoke after a long and tense moment, “Equidistant between us and the Nilfgaardians.”

“We’ll set up camp in the outskirts and launch ambushes on the Black Ones.”

"Very well, but don't expect much in the way of provisions. My aide will assign you a contact in the event that you need to get in touch with us."

"Thank you, your majesty," Roche said, but lingered on the last word longer than he should have. There was one final question that had troubled him long before he'd stepped foot in Novigrad, but it remained lumped up in his throat. He stood unmoving even when Radovid turned away, and it didn't take long for the monarch to notice that he had some words left unsaid. 

"What is it," Radovid finally asked when he was sick of his time being wasted. 

"And if any non-humans wish to join the fight," Roche finally blurted out. He sounded far more confident than he was feeling and he thanked the gods for that. 

"200 orens for the head of a mage," the monarch declared without hesitation, "If it's a dwarf or elf or some kind of abomination… Use them for now and I will deal with it once all this is over. Though I expect that there may not be anything left of the elves if they remain in your care."

Roche swallowed his words and nodded dumbly.

Would this be how people would see him? As a leopard that couldn't change its spots? Perhaps he would have said something if he'd actually earned the merit.

"I understand. Thank you for your time, your majesty," he conceded as thoughts of hopelessness invaded his mind again.

It took him half a day to knock some sense into the aides and another half to squeeze what he needed out of them. 

By the time he'd left Novigrad, a full day and a half had elapsed and he was raring to head back to camp. He didn't have much in the way of company as he rode through the endless fields alone, with the sole exception of Iorveth's words ringing in his head again. It was comforting as it was distressing, and he couldn't help the tiny ache in his heart. 

_I can give myself time,_ he thought to himself. It didn't need to be today, tomorrow, or even next year. He was sure that hope would find him again. As would Iorveth.


End file.
